


Torn

by SepiaWhiskey



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Inspired by The Walking Dead, Jealousy, Light Angst, Negan (Walking Dead) Swears, Negan Being Negan (Walking Dead), No Smut, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Negan (Walking Dead), Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Short One Shot, Wives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-07 06:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10354194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SepiaWhiskey/pseuds/SepiaWhiskey
Summary: The Reader considers Negan her friend, but is in light that he sees her as more.Request at my Tumblr: [ Sepia-Whiskey ]





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a tragic laceration and it makes you sick to your stomach.

 

You briefly glance at the quiet storm of Negan that stands before your door so late within the night before looking back down to the wound, biting your lip at the sight. It is not nearly as bad as it could have ended up, but commiseration is due despite this. Not that you knew much about these kinds of things anyway, but the bullet hadn't seemed to have shattered too much, though getting it out would be dangerous for stability and strength when going in for some serious hits.

 

With the bullet still lodged into the side, you cautiously relieve Negan of his Lucille holding both ends in either hand. Running a thumb over her carefully, your gazing flickering up to his grim expression softly, “Um...I'm really sorry about this. Did you want to come in? ” Despite the invitation to a lewd comment by her offer, he does not seem at all interested in such antics tonight and slips beyond your frame, looking so strange without Lucille occupying his He lays himself out on the loveseat across from your bed, his right leg extends beyond the love seat's armrest, the other leg  perched up on knee when he lays face down, one arm tucked under his head, the other over his chest. His gaze is far more pensive than despaired or pouty but the sight of this macho leader so befallen in his own emotions still makes you giggle internally.

 

Not much will leave such a bitter taste within his mouth, yet here he was a nearly pouting mess in your room without so much as a glint of interest in the fact that he had caught you solely in your undershirt, shorts, and a thrown on robe. You tried to leave the banging to his wives ( but like shit you weren't tempted ) and had unintentionally become the place he came when everyone else was either too scared to give it to him straight or were shitting so many excuses he couldn't bear the smell. This wasn't to say you had the power to curse him out or call him a cunt, but he certainly did like to playfully pester you for two reasons: your honesty and your sworn abstinence within the Sanctuary. Call you crazy, but condoms of the apocalypse did not seem entirely worth trusting and damn if you'd be bringing a kid into _this_ world.

 

The running joke ( purely one sided - his ) was that if he could get you _out_ of the Sanctuary, then you couldn't use that reason to deny him anymore. You were pretty adamant that it wasn't gonna happen - though when put on the spot, you usually faltered so who fucking knew what would happen if he managed this one day.

 

 _You'd have folded like a goddamn piece of paper_ , your subconscious laughs.

 

You pried at the splinters around the bullet, though you weren't entirely sure what you were really, mm... _doing._ Admittedly, you didn't spend a lot of time - like, less than two minutes- trying to find out how to operate on with a set of tweezers, picking a few splinters loose on Lucille before sighing and setting her next to you, her barbed tip laying on your pillow before you turned, bringing your knee up to your chest, hugging them and looking at him, “I can't fix Lucille.”

 

He snorts softly, “No shit, doll.”

 

You frown slightly, “They why bring it here?”

 

“You're the one who took _her_ from me and I didn't say anything about fixing her up.” You huff and look at the nondescript painting of lines and splotches on your wall where you really wish there was a window, softly chewing on your lip within the bearable silence between the both of you. He seemed to like lingering in your room, sometimes never saying anything beyond a greeting of “hey doll" before seating himself on that small love seat. But he's never come this late. It's usually right before night that he leaves for his room without another word. Admittedly, his eyes were usually closed. It's sad, but you do not leave your room often enough, so this was the extent of “mixing things up” in your life with his eyes lazily open and directed to the ceiling.

 

For the most part, if there was a question to your worth in the Sanctuary, you handled the personal matters of Negan which seemed to secure you as almost an assistant. You weren't exactly sure when it happened, but it had, nonetheless. 

 

He startles the expected silence with his bass laced voice, head curving halfway to regard you, “You can sew up some pocket in my jacket if you're feeling fidgety over there waiting for me to leave.”

 

You smile a bit, “Can't sneak a request past me, boss. If you want it fixed up, you only had to say so. Give it here.” He reluctantly pulls his body up, though there is a dim flicker of a smirk on his lips from your comment and ridiculous nickname of “boss" that he has never demanded of you before he slides free of his leather cover, tossing it across the short distance of your room. Sitting upright in his plain dirty gray shirt, leaning forward onto his knees. You can feel his gaze, watching you thread the needle, setting it between your teeth as you isolated the tear within the jacket. It isn't too lengthy, especially for someone like you who has a basic level of knowledge in sewing. When you bring it a even a little closer, you can smell the remnants of tobacco. This does fall in hand with the familiar scent of Negan himself, making for a very pleasant smell that others might pull away from. You begin to thread into the original pattern, spacing to the best of your abilities and decide upon conversation.

 

“This is usually what wives do.”

 

“Your point?”

 

You snort, “So don't you have, like, six?”

 

His brow furrows, confused, “If you think those women are good for anything other than a good time in the bedroom, the key reason they're there, then you just lost some credibility.”

 

“ _I_ am going to lose credibility because _you_ have your wives for the most vulgar reason to keep someone around? How does your point system work exactly?”

 

When he finally chuckles that rumble of a sound, you give a full smile and shake your head, proceeding to sew with your legs crossed. He points lazily towards you, “And what about that woman in my goddamn Sanctuary who barely leaves her room? How does she have more credibility than me?” You cut him a look, although your smirk weighs down the thought of honest distaste, “She gets pampered and a good run to stay cooped up in because she is a brilliant friend to you who cuts your hair perfectly, sews your clothes, cleans your Lucille, and is damn near the Sanctuary’s psychiatrist with how much people come up here to talk with me. They must trust me. I've learned a lot about most people here because, for some pleasant reason, they trust me.

 

“You barely leave the room. Who the fuck you gonna tell shit?”

 

You laugh to the honest comment and finish up with his gaze on you still in his peripheral, tying the final knot on the thread before snapping it off with your teeth, nesting your sewing kit back under your bed, tossing him the jacket, “You're welcome. Made it fancy.” He catches it with a hand, looking at the threaded inner over before smirking, “Good work, doll. Maybe you are useful.”

 

“Screw you. I made you feel better about Lucille.”

 

“No, watching that bitch drop down from a bullet made me feel better. Watching you sew my clothes up with those shorts riding just makes me hard.”

 

You give a frown. He was clearly getting back into the groove of things, your assistance no longer needed.  “That's...just lovely.”

 

It's though by some perfected timing, blurred to be good or bad, that you hear the familiar voice of one of his men calling for the presence of the freshly taken man from Alexandria in the courtyard with two of his wives. The man, Joe, admits that he's not entirely sure what they're doing but is just reporting in. This uncertainty of this on hand with interrupting his time in here seems to turn the emotion of Negan from calm to irritated and borderline pissed. He shrugs his jacket on and quietly gestures a hand to you to give him a moment, moving to the door, coming to face the man. He glances at you and softness comes over him. You had seen Joe a few times before he stopped coming altogether for reasons he has never quite mentioned to you. You smile, giving a small wave, and while you cannot directly see Negan’s expression with his back to you, the drain of light in his eyes tells you enough as a secondary source.

 

He keeps his eyes on Negan when he demands with little patience,  _“W_ hy the flying fuck would I be concerned with what that awkward fuck is doing?"

“I - I just wasn't - “

 

“Weren't fucking thinking, that's what the fuck that was. And, forgive my fucking curiosity, but how the fuck do you know where she is?” It takes you a moment to realize that he is referring to you. Joe explains with the maximum amount of reluctance you are sure an individual can have that you had helped him with the passing of his friend after one of the runs, not exactly moving Negan.

 

“Bother me in here again, and you'll be getting help with the doc after spending the night with Lucille. We understand each other, asswipe?” You wince at the fear in his eyes in nodding before he immediately leaves, the door still ajar by Negan’s choice as he makes a point of telling you that he's leaving. Though after what you've seen, you would enjoy space from him until later, something occurs to you.

 

“While I have you here - why did you tell Dwight he couldn't come here anymore? And did you tell Joe that? I was just - “

 

“Because I don't want them here with you.” He asserts, turning back to face you, closing the door behind himself, “In fact, doll, I've really made it pretty fucking clear that I don't want any fucking men in here last time I gathered everyone up so don't expect too much fucking eye candy coming in here for you.”

 

You sort of just looked at him and tried to fathom how he thought you were concerned with flirting with his subordinates when you had said plenty of times that you were no one's to have, though he, himself, seemed to have asserted himself as your sole interest or _protector?_

 

You sigh, “Negan-”

 

“Is your compliance gonna be a fucking problem? Because you’re already on thin fucking ice with how little you do around here.”

 

You seemed visibly moved by his words, astounded that he would pull rank, coming down so bitterly and aggressive to you - all of it coming from a pure core of jealousy and possession. Had he mistaken your friendship for you permitting him to make his claim? Was he embarrassed that he had been found within the unofficial therapist’s room and needed to make a point that he wasn't here for that? Whatever may have guided his sudden, abrasive nature, your silence comes as a muted concurrence and compliance. He reaches to your side, pulling Lucille from your bed with a simply pull, grunting in his turn away from you.

 

Then you just say it.

 

“I'm not your wife, Negan.”

 

He stops.

 

“Sometimes I think you forget that. But no more men. Understood.”

  
You can only wince when he walks out, the strength of the slamming door fit enough to bring the entire Sanctuary down.


	2. Chapter 2

There was no beauty in the world anymore. 

 

You truly and honestly believed that. The closest that came, for you, was the fall of rain that was so sporadic, you would often run to the top flight of stairs, extend your legs through the bars, and watch. Considering the amount of unnecessary blood spilled over the Sanctuary by a certain hothead who frequented your quarters, it had a way of quite literally washing away the splotches of light brown and fresh wine red over the concrete and fences, almost giving the Sanctuary one more chance to start over and try again - though shit if anything would ever change by human consideration. Now had been such a nice time to see the light drizzle of it all, heavying with each minute to the melting dirt of the walkers in hand with it. You gave a satisfied crunch into an apple and watched before the weight of the rain was audible upon impact to the ground and you were forced to stand under cover of the door, just watching.

 

You honestly didn’t know what you  _ thought  _ was going to change with Negan after his outburst about men not coming into your room three days ago. He still frequented your room to rest, though more so often to sleep or simply sit or lay quietly, leaving whenever it came to him to do so without so much as a goodbye to you. Even his greetings were now like feral grunts of acknowledgement before he situated himself on what you were now quietly labeling as Negan’s Love Seat. You hadn’t taken to conversing with him that much for his impulsive rage towards you for wanting to keep his people mentally stable under his essentially oppressive thumb. Regardless of the feelings you had for him or that he had for you, the definition of cruelty did not change and you didn’t like how cold he had been that day - not for yourself, but for people like Dwight who literally looked to be able to end themselves at any moment in time simply because he could not accept your decline of being his whore, in vulgar terms.

 

To this point, you were drenched from sitting prior on the metal steps and ran a hand over your head, throwing our finished apple into the pit of walkers, turning and prying the door open only to jump back to the sight of a drenched and battered Dwight before you, heaving to fit. His lip hangs busted with bruising making a gradual presence around his right eyes. Whatever has happened to him, the curl and limp of his body tell that most of the damage came to the body rather than face with only a few shots taken there. When you jump, your bare heel begins to slip to the surrounding puddles behind you, forcing Dwight to catch you by forearm. When he pulls you back, he is vicious and angered. But it doesn’t seem to be at you.

  
“We need to talk. Now. Or I’m going to lose it.” 

 

You almost nod to the point in which Negan’s vicious threat of your compliance rings loudly enough to give you a headache. He wouldn’t dare do anything too heinous to you, but with Dwight already on his radar with the disappearance of the prisoner ( which now likely explains his beaten appearance), you don’t want to fathom what his intent to punish the already broken man will be now and shake your head, trying to pull away, “Oh no... Dwight. I can’t. I - I can’t. Negan - “

 

“I’m not asking you right now.” 

 

His hands takes a tighter hold and he drags you to the entire length of your room before he slams the door behind him, pacing near the door as he grips his stringy hair, teeth gritted  before he lands a fist into the wall. You jump and bite down on your finger, trembling as you feel when you see the evidence building around your room - the water, the fist to the wall, the drops of blood to his lip as he so rarely checks and wipes with his hands. He rambles a moment, working around what he clearly wants to tell you before he turns and his eyes swell with tears, but he doesn't seem to notice. 

 

“She's gone and I don't fucking know if I'll ever see her again! Because of that bastard! Then he kills the fucking doctor and - and…!” Your face is in his hands to his quick cross across the room and you grasp his wrists as you look up at him, “Dwight-” 

 

“I wanna kill that bastard. I wanna burn him. Burn him until he pays everything he's done. I need to kill him because if I don't, I'll fucking collapse on myself!” You look up at him and gulp. There is very little you can do to ease this because you cannot possibly imagine the things that Dwight had lived and handled. You can feel yourself about to cry and touch the burned skin of his face, the unnatural wrinkles and thinness of it in all its unfathomable horror. You curve your head and you can feel your voice crack, “I'm sorry. I - I know you're just trying to protect and the shit that's happened - I know, it worse than sucks and - and I can't fix that. But neither can killing Negan.”

 

His eyes widen, incredulous to your support.

 

“If he goes, someone worse under his control takes over. Arat, Simon, who knows? You feel trapped, like nothing you do will change. And it won't. It won't change a damn thing. Your best chance is when...When things can't change, you move on and change the things you can. This situation? Your presence is optional.”

 

“Are you-?”

 

“I'm not doing anything except telling you that sometimes if a situation drains you so void, your best chance is to  _ remove yourself  _ from it, even if that means with only the clothes on your back and a small bag of things. Search or  _ find  _ what or  _ who  _ makes you feel again. Because you just can't change some things. Or some people. And no matter what's happened in the past, you just keep running, and running, and running until you can't even remember what the damn situation looked like.” 

 

You offer a small smile of sadness to his realizing eyes that shake with uncertainty. He seems to plot where he stands whilst you both remove yourself from each other. He does not move to embrace you but what you read in his eyes you have so rarely seen in his time here, well, to the times that you have toured yourself through the entirety of the Sanctuary. The hope in his eyes certainly does not help with the swelling tests in your own eyes. You wipe your eyes and look outside, “When it gets dark, Negan usually comes in here. If you can try and find an area where you can slip out, I can at least keep him busy before they report you're missing and he can even think to punish you. It's a shitty plan but you know the area better than I do.”

 

He nods, grumbling to himself, “No more reason to be here.” 

 

“There's no way to signal, so you'll have one shot to go…?”

 

He looks at you, eyes settled, “I'll do it.”

 

*

 

While you are most definitely interested in book nested in your lap, the tension of tonight weighs heavy on your mind. You are, again, pissed that you do not have a window to be able to look through and can only sit in silence with your book. There is a radio capable of playing CDs but you're not so productive enough to actually  _ get up  _ and find some so reside in the silence most days, startlingly satisfied with it day in and out. 

 

Each stretch of footsteps past your door startle you. Some come in strides, quickly paced, slow, walking. You become easily paranoid and try to remember the walk of Negan - coming to a complete draw when you recall that his state of being, emotionally, defines how he might approach you or anyone. The night isolates into the silence of crickets and quiet chatter of guards down outside and  _ that _ is when you hear the steady steps of an individual processing down your hall. You keep your book close and relax your shoulders, forcing a steady body as your door creaked open, softly patting against the wall. You don't bother looking up, as every other night, and kept your eyes down on your book. 

 

_ With little effort, Marie is able to pull herself on top of the family truck, joining her brother in the view of their widespread claim of land. The knowledge of their father's presence watching then through the kitchen window is not too hard to miss, but so long as they are at a distance from him, they disregard his sights and - _

 

“You and I are gonna talk, tonight.”

 

You tense and look up to where he sits. His entire presence is surely abrasive in some way of its own, arms extended along the edge of his loveseat. He gestures to the spot next to him, a clear directive to take next to him. You gaze stays over your book at him, glancing at the seat before folding the edge of your page, closing the book. Your feet force you forward, subconscious snarling for you to remain calm. Your irrational fear remaining that the closer you were to this man, the easier he would be able to detect your lies. This is the first time you have seated yourselves on the same surface. You sink into the dark burgundy cushion, leaning yourself against the back of it with your hands uncomfortably on your lap. You can feel his arm hit the back of your head and inhale, having to remember to exhale. He looks at you a moment, his other hand twisting Lucille around on the ground before turning to you, “You are  _ insanely  _ nervous considering how often I come in here. Something you wanted to tell me, doll?”

 

You look him, “No, I don-”

 

You pause when his brows furrow and he extends a hand, turning your cheek. He pries a glove loose, finger running over your cheek softly. When he pulls back, a small smear of blood, dried, stains the tip of his finger. Your heart pauses in function when you recall how often Dwight had been wiping blood from his lip and had grabbed your face. You have no lacerations to take the blame and so sit and look at him, “Nose bleed.”

 

He grunts, but their is a cynical amusement. 

 

He obviously doesn't believe you.

 

“You talked to old Dwighty before I...you know, made you  _ stop.  _ He tell you a lot? His favorite color? Dumb sleepover shit like that?” You frown but give a nod, softly running your nails over your cheek, “Sure, Negan. Sleepover stuff. Your point.”

 

“Tell me it. All of it.”

 

You whip your gaze towards him, “ _ What? “ _

 

“Mm, don't think I fucking stuttered. Gonna need to know everything he told you. He's been acting a little fucking loopy and I'd want to know what he's been telling you.”

 

You shake your head, “No.”

 

“Fucking  _ what?”  _

 

You look at him and turn your entire body, “I won't let you break him down mentally just because that bastard from Alexandria got away. I don't usually get caught up in your shit but I can't. I can't. I - I just can't.” He looks at you for a long time, and whether he is glaring is lost to you with your gaze down on the ground. You realize your plan to distract him might be lost and wrap your mind quickly around his this will be fixed. 

 

You know well enough that by not telling him what's he wants to know, he's already pissed with you, and there is little you can do about that given you are steadfast in your denial of Dwight’s information. You'd offer yourself as a wife but  _ shit  _ if you would let plan go any farther than words. The closeness of him certainly does offer the only idea that you believe will work without long term consequences. It was utterly and blatantly desperate and the chances of him seeing through it are incredibly likely. But it had a chance.

 

You kiss him.

 

Already turned to him, you have only to lurch your body forth, hands grasping his jacket ( did he ever take it off? ) with your leg suddenly rubbing against his. For a moment, it feels like he will never move to return the gesture and that you may very well be embarrassing yourself the longer you kissed before you feel his hands run up on her thighs and pull you into his lap with the sudden domination of his tongue that riles an unscripted moan from you. He shouldn't have been this good at kissing. He was gonna get you off task, all while breaking your abstinence. You gasp and look down at him brushing your lips against his in a seductive manner that you're not entirely sure how to do perfectly. He takes hold of your chin and gives a smirk, “I'm not fucking stupid, doll. I know you're trying to distract me.”

 

_ Fuck. _

 

“Fuckin’ lucky for you. You picked a  _ damn _ good distraction.” He smirks, fingers running over your exposed through, a trail of goosebumps behind it. You shudder and look at his hand before his grip directs you back to his gaze, thumb grazing over your bottom lip, “You'll tell me what he said. Don't think you won't.”

 

He lifts you up, legs cautiously around his waist as he drops you down on your back onto your bed, extending his kisses up your neck, hands trapping you beneath himself. You bite your lip and nod, eyes swiftly turning to the clock on your wall. A simple bite to your skin arches your back softly and you're able to curl your arms around his neck. You feel the restrained urgency within Negan and you are reminded that though his response to being told that you were not his wife, he had become emotionally aggressive - therein telling you that there was a very his chance that the leader of the Saviors had more feelings for you than his pride would ever let him reveal. You did not want to toy with these feelings ( despite the requited feelings ) because we're you to pursue something, it would have to be far more than what he was clearly looking for in a wife. It almost hurt, but you felt in truth that Negan would never be yours. Not solely and not because he didn't care about you, but that he simply didn't want it that way. 

 

“I'll tell you, Negan…” you breathe, suppressed sensations within you erupting when his fingers graze upward into your shirt, grazing your flesh before he moves upward, hands sliding under your bra, kneading your left breast - a smirk flexed when you exhale a shaky whimper, fingers grasping his jacket, mind wandering and hoping that Dwight had made his move, that whatever information Negan would get from you ( inevitably ) , would mean nothing with him gone.

  
“After tonight,” you breathe, picturing the sight of Dwight slipping into the darkness, clutching Negan closer, “I'll tell you everything he told me. After tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> I actually had fun with this character so I might write for her another time. But if it's a different Reader ( different attitude, personality, etc. ) then I'll preface it with if it's this one again.


End file.
